


remise

by stophit



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stophit/pseuds/stophit
Summary: A late night in Jihoon's studio, and the insecurities looming in their silences.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	remise

Seungcheol finishes captioning his photo of Jihoon slumped over his guitar, the dark blue of his recording studio's lights washing over his figure. As he posts, he stifles a yawn. He's tired enough to ask without thinking, "Does your guitar have a name?"

It's supposed to be a silly question, but with the clock reading almost four in the morning, he winces when Jihoon removes his headphones to sit them around his neck. "What was that?"

Jihoon's been working all day. That realization congeals in his stomach and weighs him down until he flops onto the couch, squeezing his eyes shut. "Never mind," he mutters. "But you should sleep soon. It's getting late."

The persistent letters of the _WOOZI'S ROOM_ neon sign are burnt into his mind, and so is the huff of mild annoyance that Jihoon lets out, followed by the creak of his chair swiveling.

His eyes are heavy. His shoulders ache. This sofa is tall enough for every member, worn down with Jihoon's repeated napping and everyone else's repeated pestering, but Seungcheol wants to face him. He'll endure the awkward angle to twist on the couch and see him.

Jihoon's raising an eyebrow at him. "You sure that's what you said?"

 _Come to us about anything_ , he's saying underneath the irritation of Seungcheol interrupting during his work. _You should rely on us more_ , he's said before in the past, him and Soonyoung. _We're leaders, but you're still_ our _leader, first and foremost_. Seungcheol still can't meet his eyes, but he tries. "Yeah. It was just a dumb question. If I knew what time it was, I'd be nagging you instead."

"Stupid question or not, I've probably heard worse. I'm already here if you change your mind." Jihoon raises his hands like he's annoyed, but Seungcheol still sees the tiny thread of concern that links their eye contact, tying them together.

Jihoon looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes take up half of his face and his natural languid drawl is more slurred with the late hour. But there's still jittery energy that surrounds him, leaking out in the way he leans back in the chair until he nearly slides out, one hand over the strings of his guitar and the other resting on his desk, middle finger tapping a rabbit's breakneck heartbeat.

He hasn't stopped recording. The waveforms of his song sketches drift to the left of the screen with each passing second, and his taps against the desk are a tiny tremor, mountains in the distant landscape.

Seungcheol clears his throat, a small bump in the recording. He has half a mind to sound embarrassed. "Does your guitar have a name?"

If the sun was still in the sky and they could hear the other members running around outside the studio, the question would've been normal. Here, instead, Seungcheol feels less endearing. Jihoon's expression twists, his face scrunching up somewhere halfway between giving it serious thought and _ah, yes, all of my members are like this to me_ _, aren't they_ _._ "Is it supposed to have one?"

"It could. You should name it Seungcheol, and then you should sleep." His eyes flicker to the screen behind Jihoon again, watching the disturbances of their conversation in the faraway murmur of soundwaves. His voice barely picks up on the microphone, aimed halfway between the body of the guitar and Jihoon's mouth so he can comment on song ideas.

Jihoon's eyes trail from his expectant eyes down to his embarrassed smile and back up. It looks like he lowers his eyebrow for the sole purpose of raising it again. "Why would I do that?"

"It's sitting in your lap. When's the last time you let me do that?" He closes his eyes and pouts.

It's supposed to be a joke, but Jihoon's always serious in his own studio. The silence that falls on both of them makes that obvious; instead of accepting the words as a lighthearted comment, it only reminds them of how far they've come, what they sacrificed to get to this point. Underneath Seungcheol's whiny voice is the raw agony of the words themselves: _This is where we once were_.

He wonders if the microphone would pick up his small sigh, a breath to expel the tightening in his chest. It's already picking up his heartbeat drumming at the tips of Jihoon's fingers.

The tapping stops, and so does Seungcheol's heart when the silence stretches further between them. The chair creaks. Jihoon mirrors his sigh. "You're too heavy now."

"But you're built like a brick," he says, too eager to fill the silence. "I could break plywood on your thighs, probably."

Both of them sidestep around the distance between them that's grown since their debut, that deceptively empty space—because it's _not_ empty. It holds Seungcheol's one-sided guilt of being a leader unable to help Jihoon's burden of composing for the group. It holds Jihoon's unending forgiveness for something both of them know Seungcheol doesn't have to apologize for in the first place.

Their silences in the recording studio are void of sound, but dense with unspoken conversation. They've been friends too long for their silences to be meaningless after words like those.

When Jihoon shifts, the pads of his fingers strum the strings by accident. He dampens the nonsense with his palm and says, "If you break my legs with your weight, then at least you're doing it while I'm sitting in the studio." A familiar crooked smile tops off his huff of laughter.

"Someone could stab you in this room and the only thing you'd complain about is that the microphone picked it up while you were recording and you'd have to start over."

Jihoon snorts, rubbing at his face.

He's dead tired. Seungcheol should nag him to sleep instead of wearing him down like this. But he knows that now, Jihoon's exhausted from love of responsibility instead of love despite it. He takes from their other members as they take from him, and their endless support finds a home in the way his mouth curves up at the edges, even in rest. It's a far cry from where he was six years ago, when he'd broken down crying somewhere the members couldn't see but the rest of the world could.

Something gentle settled into Jihoon's old frown, a contentedness that drains the coiled-up anxiety in Seungcheol's ribcage to replace it with a different loss.

It's not so difficult for Seungcheol to talk about the insecurities that rattle his mind these days, to share the times he feels like he isn't enough for the other twelve, to seek reassurance when he feels like the other two leaders carry a greater burden than he could ever hope to remove from them. He'll find the support if he looks, but right now, Jihoon is giving him a different kind of support.

He's playing along with the childish question, even though they've joked for years about never interrupting him while he's deep in his work. In a way, Jihoon's always forgiven him before Seungcheol realized he was about to apologize.

Jihoon's offering this space in his studio to Seungcheol's silly commentary, and he isn't about to fill it with lamenting about time lost to his guilt, to his wishing, to his helplessness. What would he want Jihoon to say to him, anyway? Would it be better to hear his own heartbeat played under the pads of Jihoon's fingers?

"Got blood on my guitar, what a tragedy." Jihoon purses his lips until it _almost_ looks like a smile. The silence has gone on for long enough that they could change topics and land anywhere, but Jihoon holds onto the not-quite vulnerability of their masking words. "You're the only one that's asked, so I'll keep its name Seungcheol," he says, wandering back to the original topic. "This one can stay in my lap."

"And me?"

"Couch." Jihoon shoots him a look, stern grimace made false by the slight curve of his eyes. "Unless you'll let me poke you and sing chords I can work with for this last song, the Seungcheol in my lap is a better choice of company for the night."

He says it like a joke, one where Seungcheol isn't the punchline—and he knows he isn't, but that voice he hates nags at him, the voice of anxiety rearing its ugly head and _always_ —

While something peaceful settled in Jihoon's frown, something's sneaked into Seungcheol's smile when he smiles it here in the studio, something that cracked over years and years until he finally shattered on stage. These days, that apathy comes and it goes—and when it comes, he sees in those cracks somewhere dark, a place where the stars of his members don't shine.

It's easier now to ask them for help. It's always been easy to receive it from his members, always grateful when Seungcheol feels like he hasn't done enough. But still.

He watches Soonyoung and his team dance for hours on end, creating choreography for their B-sides. He sees Hansol and Wonwoo trade places in and out of Jihoon's studio, pens behind their ears and notebooks in their hands as they brainstorm lyrics for the last few songs. He knows the rest make appearances on shows, teasing about a new album with wide grins and complete confidence in their team.

At the end of the day, when the studio lights turn off—Seungcheol still hears the squeak of Soonyoung's sneakers as he _tries this part one more time, hyung, then I'll sleep_ _, promise_ , sweat dripping down his face as Seungcheol convinces him to at least drink water. The mirrors that line the walls there reflect everything, from the fire in Soonyoung's eyes to the unreadable expression on Seungcheol's face.

At the end of the day, when the dorm quiets and snores shake the thin walls, he still hears the creak of Jihoon's studio door opening, as if he thinks everyone is asleep. He's always alone at the end of the night, trudging up the stairs and being as quiet as he can. His footsteps sound like music sometimes when he passes by Seungcheol and Soonyoung's room, practicing dance steps even on the verge of sleep exhaustion.

If Seungcheol could do everything for his members. If he could do anything for the other leaders, if he could give them all a day of rest—"Who are you to say the guitar in your lap is better than _me?_ " he teases. "You didn't even try the _original_ Choi Seungcheol's musical skills."

He teases before he can't hear his words anymore over the ache in his chest.

He throws a hand out to Jihoon and wiggles his fingers. He doesn't know how long he's been silent, but he _does_ know that even without checking, Jihoon's stared at him the entire time.

Jihoon looks down at his hand. (There again, in his frown of faux concentration, is the same joking kindness he's always had. It's just that the others have made him more open now. Seungcheol isn't the only person privy to it anymore.) He presses a finger in the centre of his palm. "G major seven."

Seungcheol looks down at his palm and then back at him. He tightens his lips into a line as he tries not to laugh, or maybe cry. Laugh, because _still_ Jihoon entertains the sleep-deprived suggestion, falling in step behind him no matter how long the silence sits between them, how far the distance between them grows. Cry, because after all this time, Seungcheol still only knows the basics of music, knows theory but can't sing a note on command like this.

He hums an entire octave in a steady glissando before pouting. "It's at least one of those notes, right?"

"You got two." Jihoon keeps his finger in Seungcheol's palm. Seungcheol closes his fingers over it. Neither of them move. "For best effect, you'd need at least two octaves."

"Ah, but I got the base notes in there."

"You did." He finally pulls his finger away.

Seungcheol lets his arm drape over the edge of the couch. He's even more uncomfortable now, but it's worth it to watch Jihoon position his left hand over the frets, strum the chord, picking the individual strings after half a beat passes. Even without hearing the next chord, Seungcheol knows this song well enough for his pout to relax into a half-smile and close his eyes.

Neither of them hum the melody, but they rise and fall to the sound of silence where their words should be.

(The song is strange without the piano singing its duet with the guitar in the second pre-chorus. There's a keyboard beside Jihoon next to the empty guitar stand, but Seungcheol can't do anything with it. He should ask Jun how to play the piano. He should ask Joshua how to play guitar. He should—)

"Did you forget the words?"

Jihoon breaks the silence to ask him a question that both of them know the answer to. Jihoon waits, but the music doesn't.

"Do you really think I could forget?" Seungcheol mumbles before he half-asses the next line. The notes are still within his range, but this late at night when his throat is already tired and he's staying quiet, his voice cracks.

(He cracks. This time, when he cracks, the darkness isn't absolute. There's that bright red neon sign reading _WOOZI'S ROOM._ The dark blue glow of his ambient lights like the bottom of the ocean, dimmer from the time Seungcheol bumped his head into one lamp and broke it. Soon, there will be the sunrise over the dorm's windows, where he can walk past each room and know who has their curtains open and who doesn't.

There are the stage lights. There are the lightsticks in the crowd, singing the songs Jihoon composed. There's Jihoon's smile as he holds his microphone out toward the crowd and lets them sing.)

Jihoon accepts his quiet mumble of lyrics, following with the next line. _No matter what happens, our smile flowers will always bloom_ , Seungcheol mouths with him.

Neither of them sing the other lines, and the final notes don't echo in this soundproofed studio. Seungcheol absorbs each last note, the slide of Jihoon's fingers over the metal strings.

He doesn't meet Jihoon's eyes, instead glancing at the screen behind him. Still recording.

Jihoon's voice is low, his words a forgotten lyric, blooming in the silence between them. "You're doing fine, Seungcheol. You've always done more than enough."

Maybe he has.

He knows Jihoon isn't lying when he says he still feels pressure about his compositions to this day, the same way anyone feels the pressure of air in their lungs, living on something so fickle. He knows that the fear of failure lies in his mind as a performer like it lies in Seungcheol's, growing fat with each passing year they remain popular.

But he also knows Jihoon isn't lying when he says the studio's changed for him. He doesn't need Jihoon to tell him about the joy of showing the group his song sketches, because he could never hide that proud, embarrassed smile at the twelve of them jumping at the most bare-bones ideas. Jihoon could never lie over the smile that would burst out from behind his hand as the members layered both serious and ridiculous suggesions onto the harmonies.

"You always do too much," Seungcheol admits on an exhale, his breath shaped with gratitude. "If there's anything I can—"

"I was talking to Seungcheol," Jihoon interrupts, gesturing to the guitar in his lap, "not Choi Seungcheol the Original."

Seungcheol pauses for a second, drinking in the no-nonsense _I'm trying to work_ expression on Jihoon's face as he speaks, and he laughs. Tension drains from Jihoon's shoulders as he slumps over the body of his guitar, tension Seungcheol didn't realize was there.

Jihoon absorbs his laugh into his smile until he almost shows teeth.

"Guess I'm not needed then," Seungcheol announces, sitting up and stretching.

He grows lightheaded, the neon sign reading _WOOZI'S ROOM_ still bright red and bursting behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut. By the time he feels like he's on solid ground again, he realizes that Jihoon's speaking.

"What was that?" he mumbles, rubbing his nose, hiding his smile of embarrassment. There's no way Jihoon isn't aware he wasn't paying attention, drowning somewhere under the pleasant hum of warm blood in his veins.

Jihoon looks at him, his feathery hair messy in places where the band of his headphones couldn't flatten the errant strands. "Nothing. Go to bed. I'm gonna finish at least a verse."

Seungcheol thinks about the times in the past few months where he's run into him in the kitchen at nearly six in the morning, neither of them having slept for different reasons. He's alone too many times in the late hours when he works like this, but at least this time he can do something about it. "Unless you're smashing guitars for experimental percussion, I'll be fine sleeping here, right? Worst case scenario, you'll have someone awake with you to grab breakfast again before you pass out."

The silence that follows this time is comfortable, both of them sinking under the night. "Suit yourself." Jihoon slides his headphones back on, but leaves the ear closer to him uncovered.

Seungcheol slumps over the edge of the couch, watching him swivel his chair around and pause as the realization that he's still recording sinks in. The ebbs and flows of their conversation wave back at them, the silences where they said everything they needed to without a single word marked with ambient noise like a faint heartbeat.

There _is_ a distance, he thinks as his neck grows sore with watching Jihoon, but it lies between who they once were and who they are now. Step by step, they've changed beside each other.

(Well, not quite. Jihoon's still a step ahead of him, forgiveness before the apology. But it's not like Seungcheol isn't open to learning from the people around him.)

Jihoon erases none of their conversation, and he doesn't start the recording over. He wastes no time positioning his fingers over the strings to find chords for his song, humming a basic melody. Seungcheol sinks down into a more comfortable position and falls asleep to the sound of his guitar, a promise of forgiveness laced in every chord.

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot my guitar's strings are all tuned half a step down... The first chord of Smile Flower is Gmaj7 with that tuning, but not in standard.


End file.
